One Screenshot to Burn an Empire Chapter 01

One Screenshot to Burn an Empire Chapter 01

And then, she could continue to victoriously coil herself around Julian’s life until she replaced me completely.

The crew moved my belongings onto the armored truck in silent, efficient order.

The Julian in the photo was dressed in a handmade Italian suit, his gaze so gentle it could melt glaciers.

Until that photo, like a shard of glass, shattered the illusion of peace.

I strode to the liquor cabinet and poured myself a drink.

Two hours later, the suitcase was packed.

The photo and the chat log—two images.

————————

Like Julian coming home later and later.

No tears, no roars of rage.

My mind began to assemble the pieces.

On the table, the black rose-shaped cake I’d custom-ordered still sat untouched.

I don’t know when I finally fell asleep.

Now, it seemed I had been naive.

She would carefully remember my preferences, brewing my favorite Earl Grey before I arrived.

“Cassia said the risk on this deal is too high. We should hold off.”

I took a hot shower, changed into a clean silk nightgown, and lay down on the unfamiliar bed.

I stared at the snake.

Like the occasional scent of a perfume that wasn’t mine clinging to his clothes.

I said to the crew leader, “Let’s go.”

Beneath the photo was a single line of text.

Into the family’s main encrypted channel, restricted to Capos and high-ranking members.

In the photo, my husband was sleeping soundly. The black rose tattooed over his heart for me was now being strangled by a menacing snake. She even added a provocative caption: “Donna, Julian is exhausted. Tonight, he’s mine.”

I closed my eyes, and the image surfaced again in my mind.

I’d always believed a man’s capable assistant and his soulmate were two different things. They weren’t supposed to intersect.

A single look from him, and she’d know which file to hand over.

I walked into the closet and pulled out the largest Louis Vuitton suitcase.

1

The black rose bloomed elegantly, each petal as smooth as silk.

She was sure I wouldn’t dare make a scene.

My husband’s new mistress sent me a photo.

A new tattoo. It had appeared three months ago, covering the rose that was inked over his heart when we took our marriage vows.

This eight-year bond—from our college campus to our rise to the top of the syndicate, from my father’s last wish to the peak of our family’s power.

Let every core member of the Griffin family witness your love story.

I carried my glass over to the cake.

Two days later, I turned it back on. Hundreds of missed encrypted calls and countless messages flooded in, nearly crashing the device.

The phone screen lit up, announcing an encrypted message.

I stared at the snake for three seconds, then I smiled.

It would hurt, but it had to be done.

I found the two screenshots and selected them.

In it, I wore a Vera Wang gown, a blissful smile on my face.

The snake’s coils were so lifelike it seemed to writhe on his skin.

Outside the living room’s floor-to-ceiling windows, the Chicago night was an ink-black void.

That’s how everyone in the family described her.

I didn’t look back.

By the time I’d settled my luggage, the sky was already beginning to lighten.

Her name surfaced with increasing frequency.

My finger tapped the screen. Screenshot.

This was the fifth anniversary of our marriage.

“Congratulations to Miss Cassia on securing her new position.”

“Aurelia, your idea is too idealistic. Cassia’s proposal is more sound.”

The rose toppled, sinking into the soft cream, its form shattering.

In the photo, my husband, Julian Griffin, was fast asleep, his face half-buried in a black silk pillow.

All I knew was that it was a deep and dreamless slumber.

The convoy pulled out of the estate and merged into the late-night Chicago traffic.

Throughout the entire process, my heart was a placid sea.

Cassia Shaw sent me a photo.

Everything that was mine, I would take.

Then, I typed my message.

“Donna, your Don is tired. Tonight, he’s mine.”

He wouldn’t even finish a sentence before she could complete his thought.

Such a shame.

As for his things, I wouldn’t keep a single item.

On his chest, the black rose he’d had tattooed for me was now being strangled by a vivid red snake.

So this was his “sit-down.”

He promised he’d make it up to me in bed when he got back.

It was time for it to end.

I calmly screenshotted the photo and the chat log, then sent them both to the family’s elite inner circle network. My caption read: “Congratulations to Miss Cassia on securing her new position.”

Or rather, too confident.

She would subtly flaunt her professional chemistry with Julian right in front of me.

The dim glow of the bedside lamp highlighted the sharp, chiseled angles of his face.

The green progress bar filled.

The 24-hour private moving team I’d booked arrived at the estate at three in the morning, right on schedule.

She once said to me, her tone joking, “Donna, sometimes I think I know the Don better than you do.”

I, Aurelia Rhodes, never make a losing deal.

She was sure I’d confront her or Julian privately, cry, and scream, and then accept some flimsy excuse about him “making a mistake any man would make.”

You want a war? I’ll give you the grandest coronation.

I took one last look at this home I had decorated with my own two hands.

Unfortunately for her, she miscalculated.

Why would she dare?

I didn’t reply.

She was sure I would choose to swallow my pride, to endure the humiliation for the sake of Julian’s prestige and the family’s stability.

I started packing.

It was proving to be an incredibly wise decision.

She would greet me respectfully whenever I came to the estate to bring Julian dinner, sweetly calling me “Donna Aurelia.”

I reached out a finger and gave it a gentle push.

I walked over and took the photo down.

At the time, I just laughed it off.

Julian had called that afternoon, claiming he had a critical, unavoidable sit-down with the Volkov family.

And this was how he’d “make it up to me.”

I downed the drink in one swallow, the sharp liquid burning a trail down my throat.

After hitting send, I shut off my phone.

Cassia Shaw.

The whiskeys we collected, the jewelry he’d lavished on me, every memento of our shared past—I pulled them out one by one and tossed them into a trash bag.

Ice cubes clinked against the crystal glass.

Click. Send.

Cassia, Cassia, Cassia.

Right over his heart.

My new residence was a penthouse apartment I had purchased several months ago, with a security level on par with a government safe house.

Like how he began to subconsciously challenge my decisions, echoing Cassia’s arguments.

I wasn’t the least bit sleepy.

The silver frame shattered against the floor with a sharp clang.

Excising the rot.

Then, I let it drop.

Julian’s assistant. She’d been with him for a year and a half.

I shut my phone down completely.

And I, foolishly, had always dismissed it as “work talk.”

It felt like a cleansing.

I felt like a surgeon performing a precise operation on myself.

Fine.

Three large bags of trash were piled beside it.

Julian’s sleeping face, my black rose, and Cassia’s triumphant snake.

Young, gorgeous, a resume that claimed Stanford, and exceptionally capable.

A woman should always have an escape route, I’d told myself.

Our wedding photo still hung on the wall.

So confident that I’d ignored all the signs.